‘Are you enjoying the gym?’
I’ve been a lardarse since time began. I don’t remember a time in my teens or adulthood where I haven’t been a lardarse. And that’s fine, it is the unfortunate normal for me and countless others. There’s no point in blaming it on anyone else other than myself and pizza, we get on. Side note, I had to get my laptop to learn the word lardarse, great education for a Monday evening.
I don’t want to talk about weight in an emotional way, because, quite simply, I can’t. For those that know me in the real world, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that I am a huge fan of food. Huge in all ways. If faced with the decision at a cliff top to save either a bag of cats or a bowl of cheesy pasta, those cats are fucked. I have, for too long, employed the simple maths of no exercise + too much food = lard. I am fully aware I need to change this maths into something a little more sympathetic towards my stature.
I’ve done it before. I managed to lose 4ish stone and felt the best I’d ever felt. I had the motivation of a ridiculously good holiday to New York, and the dawning of a twisty turvy change in life (I’ll save that nugget for another post.) However, all good things come to an end; the motivation wained, and I certainly couldn’t afford such extravagant reasons to shift it. Alas, it reappeared like a bag of cats I thought I’d disposed of moons ago.
This brings me on to the present day ever so nicely. I’ve joined a gym. A proper gym. I’ve done the gym before and failed. I’ve tried to convince myself that heading to the cheap gym round the corner, doing a really half-arsed, heavy-footed plod on a running machine for four minutes is enough to warrant a guilt-free trip to the McDonalds next door. I can assure you that this is both delusional and a complete waste of time. I am certain I did it just to get out of the house, at a time that was ever so slightly shite and warranted getting out of the house. Things are different now, and this new gym is both not cheap, or next door to the Golden Arches of joy, pain and cheese bites. The mere fact Golden Arches automatically capitalised the first letters shows I’m not the only one who rather likes it.
I have to thank my Mum for dragging me to the gym, as it was her idea for us to both sort ourselves out and check the place out. After inspecting said gym, seeing what was what, it was decided we would go. Going for the first true personal training session was the first time I’d really concentrated on doing any exercise. PE lessons at school consisted of me saying ‘no’ and being so on-purposely shit at any sports, that it forced the PE staff to send me and my equally PE-handicapped friend to play golf on another field. Of course, the thought of having to walk and fetch the golf balls made us weep, so we sat under a tree and talked for hours. Nobody cared, least of all, us.
Dead. Dying dead. Knackered. Absolutely fucking bollocksed. This is the only way I can describe the first PT session. It was hard to sit in the car, it was hard to get out the car. The worst thing, was and remains, that said gym is on the third floor. This means stairs. I live in a ground floor flat, I don’t do stairs. Walking down the stairs, completely out of breath and staggering like I’d shat myself drunk was, and continues, to be a fine moment after each work out. It’s getting better, but still FUCK ME IT HURTS.
It’s working, however. I am starting to feel less dead after each session. The people at the gym are lovely. They ignore my incessant swearing at myself and encourage me to do more than moan. It’s knackering to breaking point, but that’s the point. It’s working. I leave looking like a damp, hot mess. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, and long may it continue. McDonalds is not in sight, and that’s nothing but a good thing. Most of the time.
‘Are you enjoying the gym?’
‘I’m enduring it.’
This time I’ve been listening to the Apple Music Chill playlist whilst writing this absolute masterpiece. Lovely stuff.